Forever in the Pharaoh's Tomb
by PhoenixFlame6
Summary: A soulless voice haunts Erik day and night, subtly bending his will. A disturbance must be abated. When Erik confronts the song though, who is the hunter and the hunted?


**Forever in the Pharaoh's Tomb**

_**A Disturbance Abated**_

**By: **PhoenixFlame

**Disclaimer:** Disclaimed (duh.)

**Author's Note:** Meh, a small one-shot I thought up. I know that in Leroux, Erik was supposed to 'pretend' to be the Siren using a reed, but he did later say he didn't kill Philippe. It's just an interesting idea. If the mood strikes, I might add on to it.

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A week had passed since he had relocated himself to the depths of the unfinished opera house. Now the outside world was lost to him—the Prince of Travelers had become the Prince of Darkness at last, here to sit upon his stygian throne. While his entombment was complete however, his eternally sought peace was not. A disturbance was in the air.

Before Erik had truly claimed his residence in darkness, during his visits to his already-beloved abyss, it had been a world of idyllic, solitary peace, if always submerged in the darkest depths of his own mind. Now it was disrupted. Grave robbers plagued his tomb and without snares, it was up to the Pharaoh's eidolon to send them back to the scathing light. His disturbance however, was nothing as minuscule as petty thieves. The disturbance rang him with dread.

It had started four days ago. At first he wondered if his sanity had fled to even darker depths, but as the disruption's fervor grew, so did his certainty that he was still—mostly—in possession of his wits.

The disturbance was actually, in merciless irony, music. For four days he had heard the song; a wordless aria that swept across the aphotic lake and into his abode. It was not the mere music that put Erik so ill at ease.

The being that sang the rhapsody possessed a voice of pure empyrean beauty. It conjured up notes to shame the most cardinal of seraphs, while flowing with the richness of an earthly demon. Yet it was here his praise faltered. The voice that sang the melody did only that—sing. No trace of passion or emotion existed, only an abysm darker than his own. Music was a portal to the soul, he had often learned. When he gazed into those seraphic notes, he saw _nothing_, only a void of utter soulnessness. Without the _feeling_, it was no different from a machine that could produce sheet music, as striking as it was. But even this did not fulfill the dread that rose higher in his chest each day.

Whenever the strains of the serenade reached his ears, no matter what his task at the time, he felt strangely drawn—compelled even—to stop whatever he was doing and listen. The previous night had shaken the masked man more than he would ever admit. The previous night, he had awoken to find himself several paces from his front door, shirtless and maskless, all while the haunting melody continued.

Today he would find the cause of his breach of peace.

Erik's coffin lied long cold as he adjusted his black mask, the feel of the cool stiffened leather focusing his resolve. He took his cloak from a nearby chair and draped the swarthy material across his form, pulling it together with a silver clasp shaped like a serpent. Finally he grasped the Punjab lasso, quickly studying the lethal device for any signs of wear. Finding none, he tucked it into his cloak.

Not hungry enough to eat, he went directly to the lakeshore, walking along the rocky ground until his boat came into sight, tethered to a makeshift dock.

The small boat was solid black, matching in wood with the staff he used to steer it. At the vessel's bow was a lantern, the metal showing the first signs of rust. Darkly he wondered if a similar fate would be bestowed upon _him_. Taking a match from his pocket, Erik lit the lantern, blinking at the surge of light. Out on the onyx-topped lake he could see well enough but the light formed shadows, and shadows could give away the most adept at stealth. Setting the metallic piece back in the boat, he took the pole and thrust off, the little craft gliding over the water.

Before he got two yards the song came again, the same supernal melody that sounded as if it came from the mouth of a nephilim. This time however, the masked man heard the meaning. Before it had been merely an aria but now the song spoke, still soulless and wordless yet _calling_. It sang gloriously, promising love, companionship, devotion—everything he had ever wanted. So much comfort…so much deception. Perhaps because he had been lied to so many times in his life, Erik could withstand it, even if the compulsion remained.

The center of the lake swam closer, enticing him to continue. Suddenly he slammed the pole down hard, causing the boat to lurch to a stop. He had not linked the events together before but now that he pondered, memories stirred from the back of his mind.

The now-halted construction of the Paris Opera House had been plagued from the beginning, scores of problems marching upon the project as sure as any army. One such incident however, swam to the surface.

The lake under the opera house was manmade, not natural. A branch of the Seine had rudely decided to cut under the construction site. It prevented the foundation from ever standing soundly. To alleviate the problem he had proposed lowering the water level and turning the branch into a lake, enough below the opera house as not to interfere with the structure.

Now Erik wondered if the consequences of this were more than the Parisians that had been angered at the constant pounding of the steam pumps. To lower the water level had required a lot of digging…

Resuming his poling, his thoughts remained back almost nine years ago.

During the process of creating the lake, betwixt the continuous digging, a worker had disappeared. The only one to give any clue of where he had gone was an arthritic assistant stonemason who had seen what he described as a "drunken man heading off towards the pumps". At the pumps was where there was a gaping crevasse leading to the water.

A week later the man had returned. Several appendages, one of which bore a ring necessary for identification had turned up, floating down the Seine. There had not been enough left of the worker to bury. Garnier had attributed the death to being dragged down what was left of the tributary. Various workers however, seasoned veterans of many projects, had sworn that his condition would be significantly different if he had truly been caught in the moving water.

At the time Erik had not cared. What was one worker's life when his opera house was being coaxed into existence? But now the thought came back to him tenfold…

Finally he floated in the dead center of the lake, staring down into the secretive water. A dread more profound than any he had ever felt—ever—racked through him. The song pounded in his ears now but the tempo was steadily changing, picking up pace as well as a savage undertone. More than ever he wanted to turn back, back to his tomb of eternal peace. Sardonically, he realized he could not turn back. The mantra would never allow him to. He could either confront the thing or succumb to it, and Erik was in no mood for succumbing.

The situation seemed so delicately choreographed. Leaving his home, following the song to the center of his lake, with only a lasso and wits for weapons. Indeed, he had been reckless.

With growing comprehension Erik knew it was a snare. The Pharaoh's specter had stumbled into a trap set by the grave robbers themselves. Even while he had thought he was defying the compulsion, he was playing right into its hands. What role did he think he played now? The hunter? Or the hunted? Finally, he realized that it didn't matter to the _thing_ which one he thought he was, so long as the result was the same in the end.

The serenade was morphing into the drummer's beat at an execution. Around him Erik heard the barely-audible sound of water displacing as _something_ glided through the obsidian depths. To the side, for just an instant, he thought he saw the glitter of something resembling predatory eyes. This was not _his_ center of the lake…it was a feeding ground.

Suddenly his boat reared like frightened horse and the pole slipped from his grasp. The dark vessel twisted to the side and plummeted back into water that had once held it afloat, as did he. As the frigid water mercilessly embraced him, he had one last thought before going under the black surface. _Mayhap when they dug to form the lake… they awoke something that should never have been disturbed…_

The icy water drove all other thoughts from his mind as he was fully submerged. On reflex he gasped in shock, only to find water rushing into his mouth and strangling his lungs. Flailing his arms with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, he heaved to the surface, practically feeling the water sloshing about in his chest. Inches from the surface however, a force slammed against him, spinning him sideways.

His arm connected with wood, and the tissue from his shoulder to his elbow convulsed in pain. Clenching his jaw, he gave a final surge with his legs and finally found cold, sweet air. Between coughing and gasping, he realized dully that the boat had been inversed.

Halfway expecting to see a leviathan, a flash of surprise jolted through him when something else greeting him instead. Silence. _So now, the calm before the storm_, he thought with grim determination.

As if his words were prophetic, water churned around his legs as something rose, breaking the waterline with such deadly fluency it could have only been born in water. It surpassed the surface, with all the ruthless grace of Rahab himself. Erik looked forward, and saw the _thing_.

Either the creature was taking a moment to gloat over its prize, or sensing doom, Erik's mind had dragged out the moments. Either way, he got a full look at the angelically-voiced leviathan.

He saw it only from the torso up for the rest remained below the surface. The thing's skin was a deathly pale, nearly translucent white resembling candle wax. Where the creature's stomach, breasts rose upon its chest that inspired about as much desire in him as leprosy. Its neck was the same flawless marble hue, supporting a head that compared and contrasted more sharply to a normal human being than Erik had ever seen.

The actual visage was humanlike and sharp, without any traces of body fat. The thing's mouth was opened, revealing fangs that glittered dimly. The eyes were a green that bordered on glowing while the pupils were slitted, glaring at him in a mixture of animosity and triumph. Crowning its head were pitch black tresses that cascaded down its back until they floated on the waterline. At its amaranthine beauty though, he felt only horror. The creature was as much of a snake as the silver carving on his clasp. Despite it's humanoid face, something was so _wrong_ with it that no one could confuse it for one of mankind.

The lapse in time suddenly grinded to a halt and before Erik could even move, the thing lunged. Below the surface something wrapped around his legs, whatever it was sharp enough to chafe through his trousers and scrape against his skin. When it seemed to flex, Erik realized it was scales.

A shriek exploded from the creature's mouth, a screeching cacophony that was like bone cutting through ice. A cadaver's hunting call. At last, he saw its hands. The flesh was stark white with the digits long and tapered. Each finger was tipped with a black thing resembling a talon more so than a nail.

The thing plunged forward, claws outstretched. Erik did the only thing possible with his legs incarcerated. Snapping out his arm, his knuckles connected with the thing's chin in a backhand made so strong out of desperation he felt his _own_ skin splitting. Whatever the monster was though, it would not forfeit its prey. It came forth again, this time with such agility that he had no time to defend himself as the obsidian talons buried themselves in his shoulders.

Pain sired on each of his shoulder blades as the claws pierced through his cloak, shirt, and skin until they scored indentions into the bone itself. Erik hissed in agony, a small reaction given the damage the talons did. The nails effectively pinned his arms to his sides, leaving him incapable of throwing another punch. With nothing left, he smashed his chin down into the thing's nose.

_Something_ gave. A thunderous screech sounded below him and something warm and sticky trailed onto his chin. The creature recoiled and Erik saw the result of the damage. The thing's nose was a mess of shattered cartilage while something spate from the wound. He would have called the substance blood except for that even with his cat-like vision, the liquid appeared black.

If Erik ever thought the recoil signified the thing was retreating, he was gravely mistaken. Raw, primal fury surged through the creature's insanely bright eyes, the snake-like pupils narrowing further. He saw the thing's throat muscles contract again as it countered and once more, he was unable to defend.

As opposed to talons, the monster's fangs gouged themselves into his throat, tearing into the flesh like a tiger. At last he screamed, while red and black spangles swam across his vision. So close the fangs were to his jugular vein that he reacted out of instinct as much as strategy.

His arms were still pierced by the talons but desperation drove him on. He gathered all the power he could into his left hand-- and yanked.

The claws tore through his skin like paper, shredding the tissue until they grinded against his collarbone. With the nails in the puncture wounds the blood loss had been minimal. After they had torn themselves out, however, the blood flowed freely. That was an understatement. The sanguine drops rushed from the gouges, filling each ragged tear as they went, only to be swept away by the water. His head _swam_ the pain was mounting him so fiercely! But his arm, though rapidly losing blood, was free.

There was little room for leverage but his arm was at such an angle from his neck that the distance was helped. Lashing out, the heel of his hand connected with the thing's cheek, effectively jerking the creature's teeth from his neck. Like with his arm, the fangs tore their way free, effectively shredding his neck open. Unlike his arm, the blood actually gushed from the wound, drenching his already-soaked collar and spraying the thing's face with a layer of red. With the amount of blood he was losing, he needed to kill the thing _quickly_, or he would on his own without any further assault.

With the creature's head once more snapped back, whatever it was that had a grip on his legs loosened. Not wasting the ceasefire, he brought his knee up and savagely connected with the thing's torso.

The death-signaling adrenaline that coursed through him aided his strength, as his constitution was rapidly declining with each pint of blood he lost. With the help of adrenaline, or perhaps pure luck, his attack caused the thing to twist sharply away, convulsing in such a way he was almost sure he had broken a rib, if the creature even _had_ ribs.

The remaining claws left his shoulder, creating gashes but ones not quite as bad as the ones on the other shoulder blade.

The thing had backed up several feet and at last, Erik had room. Finding a pocket in his sodden cloak, he withdrew the Punjab lasso and with a cast as sure as ever, he sent it whirling around the creature's neck. All it would take would be a yank and the neck bones would snap.

At last though, the adrenaline that churned in his veins was being overpowered with the vitality he was losing. No longer did the Angel of Doom have the strength to haul on the catgut. Pathetically, all he could do was pull his arms to his chest and hope the thing strangled.

It was not a hope that was meant to be. Even as he held the lasso in his hands, Erik knew it was futile. The stars in his vision remained while he was fighting harder than ever to keep afloat. With a brutal self-honesty, he knew he would die of blood loss before the monster was strangled to death.

The hideous thing had paused in its attacks while the jet waters lapped around him. Would he really die in so drear a place? It was not the darkness that made it so melancholy. More so, it was the carnage. Indeed, Persia had jaded Erik to the sight of blood. To die surrounded by so much of the savagery, was a darker thought that the ones that already coursed through his fragmenting mind.

Resolution called back whatever minuscule strength he had left. With a determination (for what he was not entirely sure), he began to sing, softly for air was coming in with more difficulty now. It was an old Russian folk song, the rhythm making up for the harshness of the language. Only a verse could he get out though, before he sank. No amount of determination could summon enough strength to return to the surface. Erik descended to below the surface and his lungs began to burn, then raze, for air they would never be given. At last he opened his mouth one last time and the water put out the flames, while death welcomed him more warmly than anyone else he could ever recall.

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When his eyes opened, Erik stared into darkness. _Was he dead? _If he was, the thrumming pain ensured he was not in heaven. _Hell, then? _Yet instead of brimstone, he smelled only water.

Groaning low in his throat, Erik shifted to get a better look at his location. A searing pain shot through his neck and shoulders though, forcing him to his back. He was certain now that he was alive though. The pebbles along the lake shore dug persistently into his tender back.

"Stop moving. You will reopen your wound and if your blood flows, I may not be able to resist."

The voice came from the side. The timbre was low yet contained a faint reptilian hiss. There was only one thing below other than him. That would mean the voice was the…_oh Lord_.

Ignoring the command, Erik twisted to find the creature. At the movement, the voice sounded again, with a growl to match the hissing.

"I said to cease this!"

Erik finally relented, though he tilted his head slightly to the side. At last, the thing fell into his vision, its body lounging on the shore a couple of yards from his sore form.

It had changed little in appearance from the water. With an eye for details though, the masked man noticed its nose showed no signs of damage. If indeed it could regenerate so efficiently, Erik was glad it was no longer trying to kill him.

Studying the thing more closely, he wondered why he had not made the identification earlier. The haunting voice, the ferocity. Though he would never be certain, it seemed fit to consider the creature a siren, like the beings in the _Odyssey_.

Below the Siren's torso, the flesh indeed turned to glittering scales. Instead of legs, there was a tail, although it was not merely a fin from mermaid stories. From the tears in his trousers, it was obvious the scabrous texture was sharp. The actual fin though, appeared lined with spines that could slice through flesh like swords. While the creature was clearly marine based, there was something serpentine and sensuous about it; how its muscles rippled, or its eyes remained unblinking. Its eyes were still glittering like a predator, while the creature's dark hair was pooled around its shoulders, trailing to the ground.

Seeing enough of the Siren for the moment, Erik closed his eyes and thought of himself. His shoulders and neck hurt like hell but from the amount of blood he lost, he should rightfully be dead. Flexing his throat slightly, he felt the pull of a scab.

Another myth suddenly came to Erik's mind. Tiamat, the Babylonian sea goddess. A central figure in the _Enûma Elish_…

Unconsciously he began to twist to the side again, trying to glimpse the creature. Before he could fully turn to his side, a force slammed against his chest, forcing him onto his back. Erik gasped as the air was forced from his lungs, all the while grimacing as the rocky shore dug again into his torn shoulders.

The Siren was atop him, its torso at least, and effectively pinning him to the ground. The creature's claws prodded into his chest, not piercing, but sending waves of uneasiness through the masked man. A warning hiss fell from the Siren's mouth. Its breath smelt of carnage. Looking up, this close to the figure, Erik had no desire to be defiant.

It looked down at him, mouth opened partway, revealing sharp ivory teeth. The Siren's eyes remained shocking green and glittering with hunger. A hunger that was held in check but there nevertheless.

Moving with the slowness one might use for a snake, Erik inched his arm up towards his neck. When his fingers brushed against the damaged flesh, he turned curious. For the severity of the wound, there was very little blood. Stranger still was how quickly it had scabbed over. His clothing, while not dripping, was wet from the lake. Various clues, their answer murky. With time spent going nowhere, the haziness was balefully clearing. A tempest of realization began to gather at the edges of his awareness.

Ominously, he noticed that his lips, the only part of his face not covered with a mask besides his chin and eyes, were sore. Also, in stark contrast to his throat, they were caked with dried blood. Whether the blood was red or black however, he did not know. Neither did he want to; the thoughts that came from it were shadowed too heavily even for him. Alas, he believed he knew the answer regardless.

At last, there was the final question.

"Why did you save me?" Erik croaked.

His throat was parched and sore, while the Siren's weight across his chest made it difficult to breathe. The Siren's gaze softened, like a sword being sheathed. The creature reached forward with one hand, tracing a talon lightly against the uninjured side of his neck, while it appeared to consider a response. Its words however, held a noxious foresight that made Erik's blood run cold. With a timbre that grew husky this close to him, the Siren spoke.

"Your voice. Only a song such as that could make me pause in my hunt."

_More like a satanic game of cat and mouse_, Erik thought. If only he were stronger, if only he knew where his Punjab lasso was.

Suddenly the Siren's tone was infused once more with a steely hiss.

"Your voice has saved you, and now it can never leave here."

The tempest howled in his mind, destroying all thoughts except one. The surviving thought tempered his growing fury and warped to some canker that almost made him laugh.

Who was he to think he could live between two worlds? Once the Pharaoh was entombed in the eternal darkness, the Pharaoh _stayed _entombed. _Darkness only comes to more darkness._


End file.
